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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740500">From a Hunter to a Witch</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayApril16/pseuds/GayApril16'>GayApril16</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Dean Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester First Meet, Castiel is a Novak (Supernatural), Castiel's Nickname is Cas (Supernatural), Cat Castiel (Supernatural), Dean has problems with his magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Endgame Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester Hates Witches, M/M, Magic, No Smut, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Dean Winchester, Shop Owner Castiel, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Witch Dean Winchester, Witch's Familiar Castiel (Supernatural)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:55:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24740500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayApril16/pseuds/GayApril16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester hates witches and would gladly send them all to the seventh circle of Hell if he could. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of witches—and familiars—are a normal, everyday part of society, considered people instead of monsters. John takes out any witch legally determined to be dangerous, but for the most part he has to stick to the actual monsters—vamps and ghosts and the such, those that normal society—even witches—do their best to forget exists.</p><p>When Dean's magic manifests during a hunt, revealing him as a witch, John doesn't hesitate to try to kill him. Injured, confused, terrified and with his new magic burning him up from the inside, Dean manages to escape, collapsing in an alleyway. He's found by Cas Novak, an unbonded familiar who owns a shop that specializes in items to help witches manage their magic—Cas' specialty. Recognizing a manifesting witch when he senses one, Cas doesn't hesitate to bring Dean home and help him handle his magic as best he can.</p><p>WARNINGS: Moderate descriptions of Canon-typical violence, anxiety attacks, John attacks Dean - Please stay safe!</p><p>I'm aiming for this to be lots of fluff with a dose of angst (mostly at the beginning).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Probably Sabriel later on</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That witch should <em> burn</em>.”</p><p>Dean glanced over at his father’s words, unsure if he was supposed to reply or not. The witch in question had been running the motel's front desk, using his magic to clean the dirt-streaked windows so his hands were free for him to look at his phone.</p><p>“<em>Every </em> witch should burn,” John Winchester growled, answering Dean’s question. The older hunter was sorting through the duffel of weapons he’d brought in from the car. “They can all go to Hell.”</p><p>Dean turned back to his own duffel. Laying out the various guns, knives, and a dozen other hunting tools was second nature at this point.</p><p>“The whole lot of them are monsters.”</p><p>“I know, Dad,” Dean finally said. It was more to get him to shut up than Dean actually agreeing. Not that Dean was the most comfortable around witches—magic made his skin crawl—but the overwhelming majority were normal, active members of society. People who’d never hurt anyone. True, witches who went dark or crazy were dangerous and needed to be taken out, but either occurrence was rare.</p><p>That fact didn’t stop John Winchester from hating every last one with an intensity that actually scared Dean a fair amount, if he was being honest with himself. It’d been another contention point between Dad and Sam before Sam had abandoned them to go to Stanford—yeah, a witch had killed Mom when Sam and Dean were little, but that didn’t sentence an entire race to death. Humans had done much worse, Sam had argued.</p><p>But that was over now. Sam had left and Dean was stuck doing the same old, hunting down monsters without gaining thanks or reward. Even with magic widely known, the majority of society turned a blind eye to the monsters that hid in the dark—<em>real </em> monsters, the killers. Dean had killed more vamps and burned more bones than he could count, not to mention ganked more than a few dangerous witches. John had a permit that allowed him to take out the ones that were officially deemed dangerous, which Dean used by extension. </p><p>“Where’re we goin’ first, Dad?” Dean asked, checking that one of his shotguns was loaded.</p><p>“Local morgue. Each of the vics were bitten. The marks should tell us what by. Vamps, most likely.”</p><p>*****</p><p>It was <em> definitely </em> vamps—and unfortunately, Dean was standing in the middle of their nest.</p><p><em> Gee, Dad, thanks for the warning! </em> Dean thought as he slashed at the throat of the vamp that was lunging at him. He hit the mark and the vamp’s head went flying, but there were several more ready to take its place. Dad had probably expected Dean to realize that he was walking into the nest; after all, why else would he be sending Dean into a shabby warehouse? </p><p>Dean found himself backing away, swearing repeatedly under his breath and fighting like his life depended on it—which it did. It wasn’t long before he was backed against the wall, which was <em> not </em> a good place to be when surrounded by monsters that were twice as strong and fast as you. Dean had been lucky to survive this long—it wasn’t a surprise when his machete was torn away, leaving him defenseless.</p><p>The huge, industrial lights that lined the warehouse’s ceiling switched on, flooding the room with light.</p><p><em> Well, that explains where Dad is </em>—</p><p>Dean dove for his blade, the vamps momentarily blinded by the brightness, but it was too far away. A vamp grabbed him and slammed him back against the wall, pinning Dean by his arms.</p><p>“Now, aren’t you a pretty thing,” the vamp crooned, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. “I’m gonna enjoy drinking you.”</p><p>Dean kicked, but it wasn’t any use. The vamp leaned forward, then sharp pain tore through the side of Dean’s neck. The vamp had latched on.</p><p>Something broke in Dean’s chest, snapping sharply—but it didn’t hurt, not like a broken bone did. Instead Dean was flooded with an angry, writhing energy that <em> responded </em> to the pain in Dean’s neck—it exploded out of him in a violent wave, and the vamps that surrounded him went flying.</p><p>
  <em> Wh—what— </em>
</p><p>Dean slid down against the wall, his head spinning. The energy was still surging in his body, powerful and painful and Dean didn’t know what was <em> happening </em>—</p><p>There was a blow to the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. Dean barely had time to register the pain before his attacker was on top of him, kneeling on his chest as calloused hands gripped Dean’s neck. He was choking him, strangling his windpipe with a fierce intensity. Dean scrabbled at the hands, his vision too blurry to see who was attacking him—until for one brief moment it cleared, revealing John Winchester, his face full of murderous rage. </p><p><em> Dad? </em> Dean tried to say, but he couldn’t <em> breathe</em>—but John must’ve seen the word on his lips because he snarled, “<em>You </em> are not my son, you filthy <em> witch</em>.” </p><p>There were black spots in Dean’s vision and he could barely think, his body crying out for air—then the energy under his skin surged again, blasting outwards. John disappeared.</p><p>Dean gasped, rolling on his side as he curled in on himself. He saw his dad’s form lying on the ground across the warehouse—and the older hunter’s words finally registered.</p><p><em> Witch</em>. </p><p>But Dean <em> wasn’t </em> —he <em> couldn’t</em>. But he was, as the magic flooding through his body forcefully attested to. Which meant—which meant that Dad hated him—Dad had tried to <em> kill </em> him!</p><p>Dean scrambled to his feet, his magic thrumming through his body and his heart pounding in his ears. Dad was beginning to stir, as were a few of the vamps spread across the room—so Dean ran. He didn’t even think about it, he had to get <em> away </em> and he was bursting out of the warehouse, barreling down the streets and not thinking about where he was going, just <em> running</em>. It took all of what little focus he had not to blow up everything he touched, because his magic was spilling out of him in uncontrolled waves and it <em> hurt</em>, thrashing under his skin like it was alive, forcing its way out—</p><p>The world went dark.</p><p>*****</p><p>Cas’ phone rang, screen lighting up as it buzzed on the kitchen table. The familiar pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing at the Caller ID only to sigh. As much as he loved Charlie, all he wanted to do right now was drink his tea and read his book. Today had been the worst day Cas had had all year, and that was saying something, considering that he regularly worked till at his shop.</p><p>“If this is another Karen, I’m gonna close,” Cas growled when he answered, not waiting for Charlie’s customary greeting.</p><p>“Hello to you too,” Charlie shot back, sarcasm leaking into her voice before she softened. “The meetings didn’t go well, did they?”</p><p>Cas snorted. “About the opposite.”</p><p>“Dang, that sucks. But hey, I’ve got some good news for you! <em> Ruby’s </em> has gone belly-up!”</p><p>Cas straightened in surprise. “<em>What? </em>”</p><p>“It turns out that the woman herself is part of a nasty gang, and she got caught. Charged with more than a few things, too, so she had to pull everything out of her store to pay for the court fines. <em> Ruby’s </em> is officially closing friday. Our main competitor is out of the game!”</p><p>Cas felt a little sorry for Ruby, but Charlie was right, this <em> was </em> good news!</p><p>Something pricked at the back of Cas’ neck, distracting him from whatever Charlie said next. It only took a moment to recognize the magic aura of a witch from outside, Cas’ familiar senses lighting up like a Christmas tree as they got closer. But there was something off—the aura felt weird, and the witch was out <em> back</em>.</p><p>“Charlie, can I call you back?” Cas asked, cutting her off in the middle of a sentence.</p><p>“Wha—uh, yeah. Sure thing.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Cas hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket as he stood. He stepped outside and the aura of powerful magic washed over him, making his skin tingle. It was coming from the other side of the tall wooden fence that surrounded the backyard. The witch was in the alleyway.</p><p>Cas spun the combination lock on his gate, unlatching it and stepping through—to find a witch crumpled on the ground, bleeding and clearly unconscious. Cas swore, dropping down next to him to look him over. At second glance it wasn’t too bad. He had some type of bite mark on his neck but nothing had been ripped out, and the flow of blood was relatively slow. What was more concerning was the witch’s magic aura. His magic was spilling everywhere, wild and uncontrolled.</p><p>Cas felt the witch’s forehead, noting first that it was much warmer than it was supposed to be—bordering on hot—and then was slammed by the feel of the witch’s magic. It was writhing, powerful and burning and storming inside the witch like it was trying to tear him apart, more unbalanced and agitated than anything Cas had ever felt in his life. Cas hissed in surprise, yanking his hand away so he wasn’t overwhelmed. The witch was <em> manifesting</em>—and it wasn’t going well. Multiple chain reactions were tearing through his magic, causing feedbacks and surges that doubled the intensity, agitating the magic further and causing it to writhe more. No wonder the witch had blacked out—magic inflamed like this would be devastating for any witch; <em>infinitely</em> more so for someone who’s magic was still developing and who had no idea how to manage their magic theirself.</p><p>Cas picked the witch up, carrying him bridal-style back through the gate, into his house and to the guest bedroom down the hall. It was only thanks to Cas’ strength as a familiar that he was able to do so—the witch had to be as big as Cas himself. He looked about the same age, too—mid-twenties—which was concerning, Cas realized as he arranged the witch’s limbs on the bed. Witches <em> always </em> manifested as children, teenagers at the very latest. So why was this witch only manifesting now?</p><p>Cas fetched his med kit, carefully but quickly cleaning the blood off the witch’s neck and properly appraising the wound. His heart sank as he recognized a vampire’s bite. What had this witch gotten himself into? </p><p>As Cas finished bandaging the bite, the witch woke up. He jerked away, scrambling backwards until he hit the headboard.</p><p>“Woah—hey, you’re safe,” Cas said, holding up his hands. “You’re safe.”</p><p>The witch stared at him. His pupils were blown wide and his chest was rising and falling in too-quick motions that told Cas that he was hyperventilating. His magic had reacted, too—surging defensively even as it twisted in on itself.</p><p>“Why—what—” The witch’s bright green eyes were darting everywhere. “Why can I—why can I feel you?”</p><p>“You’re probably picking up that I’m a familiar,” Cas said evenly. If the witch panicked he’d only agitate his magic further, so Cas had to keep him calm—even though the witch had every right to be panicking, if Cas was honest. “My name is Cas Novak.”</p><p>The witch stared at him for another moment, his face flushed. Then he replied, “Dean—Dean Winchester.”</p><p>Cas froze. He had to have heard wrong—but the witch in front of him fit the description of the elder son of the most dangerous witch-hater—and hunter—in the world to a T, right down to the amulet around his neck. Ignoring the magic, of course. </p><p>Dean looked terrified. He was still hyperventilating, and one hand had crept up to his neck—not to the bite, Cas realized, but to the ring of fresh bruising that wrapped around his throat. Bruises that were starting to look uncannily like handprints as they got darker.</p><p>And with that additional information, what must’ve happened clicked into place. Cas felt sick. He hadn't thought it was possible, but he hated John Winchester even more than he had before.</p><p>Cas was pulled out of his thoughts by Dean’s magic flaring, the pulse of energy spilling out of the witch as he groaned, doubling over. The lights flickered as he gasped, “It <em> hurts</em>—why does it <em> hurt</em>—Ah!” He cried out as his magic twisted again, blasting through the room and shattering all of the lights with a shower of sparks. Cas jumped onto the bed to kneel next to Dean as he writhed on the mattress, turbulent magic flooding from him in stuttered waves. Cas grabbed his left shoulder, cupping his other hand against the witch's face.</p><p>Dean’s magic reacted instinctively, pouring through Cas from the two points of contact. Cas stiffened at the sheer amount of it—all of it writhing in feverish agony. But Cas did what he did best. Working reflexively, he grappled Dean’s magic, calming it, soothing it. It didn’t want to be soothed—the dozens of chain reactions were still blazing through it, and Cas couldn’t stop those—but Cas worked insistently, forcing it to slow, to even out. In his mind’s eye he could almost see the witch’s magic: a glowing tangle of strands of power, all twisting angrily and lashing out as ripples of energy that was too much for them to handle tore through them. Cas carefully undid the knots, healed the strands—as much as he could, anyway. </p><p>Cas broke the connection, siphoning the magic out of him as he sagged, exhausted. He looked over his work and felt his heart drop—there wasn’t much of a noticeable difference. Dean’s magic was still roiling and inflamed, only slightly less so than before. The witch had blacked out at some point, curled on his side on the blanket. His breathing was labored and a sheen of sweat covered his skin. A quick check confirmed that he was running a high fever. </p><p>Cas sighed, carding his fingers over his head and not caring that it made his black hair stick out in every direction. It was a good thing that he stored a fair amount of products for the store here—Dean was going to need all the help he could get.</p><p>*****</p><p>Dean was on fire. He was burning and freezing at the same time, something that <em> was </em> him but wasn’t at the same time tearing him apart. He was suffocating and drowning and being crushed and exploding, there was just <em> so much</em>. So when sweet nothingness tried to take him, he let it.</p><p>When he finally woke up, it was sudden. He flew upright, gasping raggedly as his magic burned through him, pressing against his skin as it tried to get <em> out</em>. It took a few moments to remember what had happened—and it felt like a punch to the gut when he did.</p><p>Dean was a <em> witch</em>. His father had tried to <em> kill </em> him, and there was <em> magic </em> flooding his system and he didn’t know how to control it—Dean was a <em> witch </em> —he couldn’t—he couldn’t <em> breathe</em>—it was too much—there was too much and it <em> hurt</em>—</p><p>Something cold pushed its way into Dean’s mouth, freezing his tongue. The unexpected sensation jarred him out of his thoughts as his frantic attempt to breathe stuttered. Dean found himself looking at a man with the most brilliantly blue eyes he’d ever seen. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand on Dean’s left shoulder.</p><p>“Breathe,” the man instructed in a startlingly deep voice. “Watch my hand. In.” He held his hand in front of him, slowly raising it until about chin height before stopping. “And out.” He slowly lowered his hand.</p><p>Dean tracked the motion, doing his best to breathe along with it as the man kept it moving. The ice cube in his mouth steadily got smaller, numbing his tongue until he was calm enough to move it to his cheek. After a little while Dean realized that he could <em> feel </em> the man—or rather his magic could, passing the sensation on to him. </p><p><em> He’s a familiar, </em> his brain supplied, pulling up the memory. It was oddly hazy, but if Dean was remembering correctly the familiar had introduced himself as Cas. </p><p>The ice cube disappeared and Dean took a deep, shuddering breath that was out of sync with Cas’ motions.</p><p>Cas lowered his hand. “Are you okay?” he rumbled.</p><p>Was he? “I . . .” Dean rasped. “I—don’t know.”</p><p>“What hurts?” Cas prompted softly.</p><p>“I . . .” Dean took another deep breath, closing his eyes. Assessing injuries, he could do that. For starters, his head was a little fuzzy. He was also really hot. Sweat was making his hair stick to his forehead and his shirt stick to his back and he was grateful that someone—presumably Cas—had removed his jacket and flannel, which were lying on the dresser. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he was running a fever, but Cas probably already knew that. “My neck hurt, and—I think I cracked a few ribs.” <em> Dad </em> cracked a few ribs, his brain corrected. The memory of Dad kneeling on his chest, his hands wrapped around Dean’s throat sparked another wave of panic, and Dean felt his magic react—flaring, surging in defense and he couldn’t control it—</p><p>Cas pressed another ice cube into Dean’s mouth. Dean’s thoughts tapered off as his brain focused on the cold, but there was still magic building under his skin—</p><p>Cas had let go of his shoulder to get the ice cube, and now he grabbed Dean’s hands, gently squeezing. Dean’s eyes widened as his power flowed through the familiar. Cas’ blue eyes glittered with an unnatural light as he rubbed circles into the back of Dean’s hands with his thumbs, gently soothing Dean’s magic.</p><p>“Your magic is a part of you,” Cas said softly. “I know it feels foreign and different, but it’s just as natural as your arm or your nose.”</p><p>“Then why does it hurt?” Dean mumbled around the ice cube.</p><p>Cas glanced down for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Manifesting is always a little uncomfortable. It’s like when a baby first grows their teeth—your body has to get used to the new sensations, to adapt to having more there than before. Granted, magic is much more complex than teeth, but it’s the same idea.”</p><p>“This is more than a little uncomfortable.”</p><p>“Trust me, I can tell.” Cas tilted his head. “Sometimes,” he started slowly, “a witch’s magic can get unstable—thrown out of balance, one way or another. The magic gets wilder, harder to control until they stabilize their magic again.” He hesitated, and Dean got the sense that Cas was trying to figure out how to not scare him. “When you manifested—when your magic first showed up—it was sudden, right?”</p><p>Dean nodded, rolling the now considerably smaller ice cube around with his tongue. “It came out of nowhere.”</p><p>Cas grimaced, though he tried to hide it. “That’s not what’s supposed to happen. Manifesting is supposed to be gradual so that you have a chance to acclimate. You manifested all your power at once in reaction to being in danger—and that destabilized your magic <em> completely</em>. Your magic essentially went haywire—but it’s healing,” Cas assured. “It already feels better than before, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes. It <em> did </em> feel better—calmer, especially with Cas soothing it. It was still uncomfortable, though, as if his magic was boiling. It was probably why he was so hot, he realized distantly. His head was getting fuzzier, exhaustion creeping into his muscles. </p><p>Cas gently disconnected, and once again Dean’s magic was trapped under his skin. The familiar turned to grab something, then pressed an uncapped thermos into Dean’s hand. “Drink as much of this as you can,” he instructed quietly.</p><p>Dean stared down at it, not comprehending how a liquid that smelled like herbal tea could be bright purple. But at Cas’ insistence he took a sip. It tasted good—kinda fruity, which he hadn’t expected—and it was wonderfully cold. He drank more, then sagged as tiredness suddenly flooded his body. He closed his eyes, feeling Cas gently guide him to lay on the bed. The familiar took the thermos from Dean’s loose grasp and he fell asleep.</p><p>*****</p><p>Cas let out a relieved breath as Dean drifted off. After two days, the witch really was doing much better, even if he was still a little out of it while conscious. He’d heard enough stories about Dean Winchester to know that the hunter usually responded to things with cockiness and anger, not the fear and panic that Cas had seen so far. Dean was overwhelmed by his magic, and probably traumatized by his own father trying to kill him—it made sense that he wouldn’t be quite himself. But Cas was worried about what would happen once Dean returned to his right mind—how would the hunter react upon fully realizing the impact of what had happened?</p><p>How would a hunter deal with being a witch?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Warnings: Threats, PTSD flashbacks of a violent attack<br/>Please stay safe!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi y'all! I'm so, so sorry that there was such a big delay for posting after promising more to come quickly, that was my mistake! This chapter's a bit shorter, and while I have more planned, things are a bit hectic so I can't tell you exactly when more will come out.</p><p>As a note, I have no personal experience with PTSD. I have however done a fair amount of research from both a medical angle and a first-person account angle, so hopefully my depiction here isn't too bad. Apologies for any mistake.</p><p>Any typos are my own.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean drifted in and out of sleep. For the most part it was always other things pulling him towards consciousness—the blare of a car horn outside, the thudding of rain against the window. Every once and a while it’d be the familiar sitting on the edge of the bed, gently calming Dean’s magic. Later on it had been Dean violently shivering, too cold on top of the covers. The familiar had come with extra blankets then. But for the most part, Dean slept.</p><p>When he finally woke up—for real—he was disoriented. The bed he was in was much more comfortable than the crappy motel ones he was used to, and when he opened his eyes, the room was just as foreign. The walls were painted a light-but-not-quite-baby blue, the color slightly tinted with green. The furniture—bed, nightstand, dresser—was dark, polished wood. The nightstand had a lamp with a silver body and a pure white lampshade that matched the white curtains and the white vase of fake white flowers—orchids? Dean wasn’t sure—on the dresser. All in all, very coordinated colors, only broken by Dean’s jacket and flannel on the dresser and an oddly familiar purple thermos on the nightstand. </p><p>Cautiously, he pushed back the very white, very fluffy covers, swinging his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed, facing the window. He still had his shoes on, which surprised him for some reason. Maybe he just hadn’t expected to be wearing shoes in bed. But whose bed was he in? Where was he?</p><p>When he tried to remember, he hit a wall. He got a few vague impressions—panic, pain, but nothing else.</p><p>Dean stiffened. Someone had come into the room behind him. In one smooth motion, Dean shot to his feet, turning to face the newcomer.</p><p>A man was standing by the door, hands in the pockets of loose-fitting jeans. His t-shirt was equally casual, a dark navy that made his crystal-clear sky blue eyes seem all the brighter. His dark hair was a rumpled mess, and his head was tilted in a way that was probably the cause for the blush creeping up Dean’s cheeks. </p><p>“Hello, Dean,” the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. Dean blinked. Why was the man’s voice so familiar? </p><p>“Uh, hi,” Dean replied warily. “Who are you?”</p><p>The man didn’t respond for a moment, seeming to study him. A smile quirked at the edge of his mouth. “You know who I am.”</p><p>What? No he didn’t. “I—” Dean broke off as a memory flooded his mind. Panic, and pain, and—<em>My name is Cas Novak</em>. “Cas,” Dean stammered. He pressed a hand to his head. Why did it feel so weird to remember?</p><p>Cas crossed the room, picking up the thermos before turning to Dean. Reflexively, Dean stepped back. Cas raised his eyebrows. “Good to see that you’re feeling better.”</p><p>Dean blinked. Feeling better? Slowly, realization dawned—Dean was injured. His chest was aching with the tell-tale pain of cracked ribs, and there was a bandage on the side of his neck, and when Dean’s hand found his neck to feel the bandage, there were also—bruises—</p><p>
  <em> Dad was on his chest, his hands around Dean’s throat as he growled— </em>
</p><p>“Dean!” Cas was shouting, kneeling in front of Dean and gripping him by the arms. Dean was on hands and knees, his chest heaving. Something was crackling underneath his skin, thrumming with power, but even as Dean realized it was there it receded, dissipating. </p><p>Dean lifted his head, gasping. Cas was watching him with concern, blue eyes wide, but something behind him caught Dean’s attention. The mattress was leaning against the far wall, flipped on its side and leaving the bed bare. The lamp had fallen off the nightstand, the light bulb shattered, and—Dean twisted, looking over his shoulder—the window behind him had cracked from corner to corner. </p><p>“What—” Dean breathed. Cas couldn’t have done all of this in the brief moment that Dean had—not unless that moment had been longer than Dean thought it had? Dean glanced at the window again. How did someone even crack glass like that, without it shattering?</p><p>“It was you, Dean,” Cas said softly. </p><p>Dean sat back on his knees, looking at him in confusion. He scoffed, but it sounded forced, even to him. “How could I have . . .” he trailed off. The way Cas was <em> looking </em> at him—with sadness and apprehension and a little bit of fear—was putting him on edge. “What?” he asked.</p><p>Cas pressed his lips together. His grip tightened slightly on Dean’s arms, and—</p><p>Dean sucked in a gasp as Cas’ eyes glittered. Something in Dean was responding, the same crackling hum of energy filling his body, reaching out to flow through Cas. It was oddly familiar and frighteningly foreign at the same time—</p><p>And then Dean recognized it. He’d felt something similar many times before, but only <em> outside </em> his body, when he and Dad were taking down witches. <em> Magic </em>.</p><p><em> His </em> magic.</p><p>
  <em> —filthy witch!” Dad snarled—"Your magic is a part of you,” Cas said—“</em>
  <em>Your magic—haywire— </em>
</p><p>Dean’s fingers were digging into the carpet, his eyes screwed shut as he tried desperately to untangle himself from the storm of memories tearing through his mind. Then there was a hand gripping the back of his neck, warm and rough and giving him something else to focus on. When Cas pulled Dean into his lap the hunter didn’t protest, just sagged against him as he tried to breathe. It was only Cas’ influence that kept his magic under control, keeping it from lashing out at the nearest thing in response to Dean’s fear. It didn’t hurt like before, though, which was a relief.</p><p>At some point Cas had started stroking Dean’s hair, murmuring reassurances. Slowly, Dean’s memories slotted back where they belonged, the storm dying and his magic retreating. He was shaking, though, trembling in the familiar’s grasp.</p><p><em> Get a grip. You’re a hunter, not a child, </em> Dean told himself, but it sounded weak. It was something that Dad would say. So he stayed in Cas’ embrace, waiting for his breathing to steady and his heart to calm. And even once they had, he stayed a little longer. He hadn’t had genuine positive contact like this since Sammy left, and even before then it was rare. It felt nice, being held by someone.</p><p>Eventually, he forced himself to move away, muttering apologies.</p><p>Cas smiled gently. “You don’t need to apologize.”</p><p><em> Don’t need to . . . </em> Dean frowned at him. What angle was the familiar playing?</p><p>Dean climbed to his feet, not surprised to find that he was a little off-balance. He pretended not to notice Cas standing and gently moving closer in an offer of support, instead leaning against the off-blue wall that was nowhere near as pretty as the blue of the eyes of the familiar in front of him.</p><p><em> Shut. Up. </em> There was absolutely <em> no </em> reason he should care about the att—<em>pleasantness </em> of the familiar’s eyes, or anything else, for that matter.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat. “Uh. Thanks.” He tried to think of something more to say, maybe something that was a little more intelligent, but found himself grasping at straws. Eventually his hunting instincts kicked in in full force, so he shied back from the familiar. Cas obviously noticed, his gaze briefly flicking across Dean’s stance before he simply tilted his head again.</p><p>“Why did you help me?” Dean forced out, his voice laced with not nearly as much suspicion as it probably should. The freaking head tilt was just—well, he didn’t know what it was, but it was making it a bit hard to keep his walls up.</p><p>Cas’ eyebrows raised fractionally. “Would you believe me if I told you it’s because I like helping people?” </p><p>“Everybody has an angle,” Dean shot back.</p><p>Cas quietly sighed. He sounded somewhere between exasperated and disappointed, and Dean fought against the instinct to avoid his gaze. </p><p>“I’ll admit,” the familiar said, though he sounded like someone was forcing him to pull his own teeth out, “that your . . . magical situation interested me. Still does, actually—but that wasn’t and still isn’t my primary motive, which is to make sure that you’re okay.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “Why would you care about <em> me </em> ?” <em> About a hunter </em> was left unsaid, but it was there. Because Cas <em> definitely </em>knew who Dean was—he may not have been totally lucid at the time, but Dean knew disgust when he saw it, and Cas had looked disgusted when Dean had given his name. And after recalling that look, Dean decided that he didn’t want to know. “You know what, nevermind,” he said. He ran a hand down his face. “Just—just point me to the door.”</p><p>Cas frowned. “Dean, you’re in no condition to—”</p><p>“Just show me the way out!” Dean snapped. Cas clamped his mouth shut, his lips thinning to a line as his gaze seemed to bore into Dean’s head. After a few moments Dean looked away, uncomfortable.</p><p>Dean jumped as his pocket buzzed. Swearing under his breath, he fished his phone out of his pocket and answered habitually as he turned away from Cas. “Yeah?”</p><p>“So, you’re alive.” The sharp snarl was all too familiar. Dean’s blood ran cold and his heart doubled its pace, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. </p><p>Dean licked his lips, his throat tight. “Dad—”</p><p>“I am <em> not </em> your father, you filthy <em> monster</em>,” John snarled. Every word felt like another knife being buried in Dean’s chest.</p><p>“Dad,” Dean pleaded, “I’m not—”</p><p>“I will hunt you down, and I will tear your head off,” John growled. “That’s a promise, you son of a—”</p><p>Dean dropped the phone as a shower of sparks burst from it. It took him a moment of staring dumbly at the device on the carpet to realize that magic was surging through his body, his fingers tingling where he’d been holding the phone.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas asked softly, his face full of concern. </p><p>Dean barely heard him. </p><p>
  <em> You filthy monster. Monster. Dad was going to—because Dean—monster—You are not my son—weight on his chest, hands around his neck, magic in his veins—I will hunt you down—magic, so much, too much— </em>
</p><p>Something grabbed Dean’s arm—<em>he was being attacked </em>.</p><p>*****</p><p>Cas slammed against the wall. Stars appeared in his vision, but he managed to land lightly on his feet as he swore—then winced, as the ringing in his ears was loud enough that he couldn’t hear his own voice. </p><p>Trying to make physical contact with Dean had been a mistake. He’d reacted well to it before, when he’d been having an anxiety attack—but this round was a PTSD flashback, which Cas hadn’t realized until too late. The hunter had lashed out in self-defense—his magic had exploded outwards as soon as Cas made contact with him.</p><p>Cas dug a small pouch out of his pocket. With two fingers he fished a small, metallic bead out, then swallowed it dry, all without taking his eyes off of the hunter. </p><p>Dean had his back pressed against the wall. His eyes were darting every which way, but he didn’t seem to actually be seeing anything—he was trapped in the memory. His chest heaved as he flinched away from invisible threats, his arms raised in useless defense. Green sparks danced around his hands. Even from the other side of the room, Cas could sense the hunter’s magic.</p><p>Dean flinched again, wordlessly crying out, and the window shattered.</p><p>The bead Cas had swallowed finally activated. The ringing in his ears quieted, the smarting at the back of his head dulling. Cas rolled his shoulders, taking a steadying breath as he considered his options.</p><p>Dean wordlessly cried out, sliding down the wall as he clawed at his neck. A broken sob tore out of him—“<em>Dad </em>—”</p><p>Cas made up his mind. He shifted, then carefully approached the hunter. </p><p>The aura of Dean’s magic got stronger the closer he got, but Cas simply let it wash over him. Dean was huddled in a ball, his knees against his chest and his arms over his head as he gasped for air. </p><p>Cas meowed before stepping up on Dean’s leg with his front paws. Dean jerked back, but Cas kept his paws there, meowing louder this time. </p><p>*****</p><p>
  <em> There was a blow to the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. Dean barely had time to register the pain before his attacker was on top of him, kneeling on his chest as calloused hands gripped Dean’s neck. He was choking him, strangling his windpipe with a fierce intensity. Dean scrabbled at the hands, his vision too blurry to see who was attacking him—until for one brief moment it cleared, revealing John Winchester, his face full of murderous rage— </em>
</p><p>“Mrow!”</p><p>For a split second Dean wasn’t in the warehouse anymore, but he didn’t have time to register exactly where he was before he was thrown back in. </p><p>
  <em> “You are not my son, you filthy witch—” </em>
</p><p>Something soft was hitting Dean’s face, and there was an unfamiliar weight on his legs. For a long moment Dean thought that the weight was John, but then there was another insistent “Mrow!”</p><p>Dean blinked, finding himself looking at a black cat. The cat had brilliant blue eyes, like Cas’—<em>familiar</em>, Dean’s brain reminded him. <em>Cas is a familiar.</em> They were Cas’ eyes, because Cas was the cat. A blue-eyed, dark-as-midnight cat.</p><p><em> “Monster—” </em> John’s voice rang in Dean’s ears, but before Dean could get pulled back in Cas meowed and headbutted his face. Dean let out a shaky breath. <em> He’s not here, </em> he reminded himself. <em> He’s not here, he’s not here— </em></p><p>Cas meowed again, softer this time, and licked Dean’s nose. Dean let out a shaky laugh, which apparently startled Cas almost as much as it startled himself. The familiar tilted, having to rearrange his feet to keep from falling off his precarious stance on Dean’s knees.</p><p>Dean ran a hand down his face. His heart was still pounding double speed and tears were prickling the back of his eyes. His magic—his magic was kind of surrounding him, trying to shield himself the same way he'd been doing with his hands earlier. Dean took a deep breath. <em> He’s not here. </em> </p><p>Dean yelped as Cas jumped to his shoulder. The familiar licked the side of his head, apparently in apology, and Dean wrinkled his nose. “That’s kinda gross, you know,” he said, turning to look at him. Cas meowed, then tilted his head the exact same way he’d done when he was human. Dean let out a soft laugh.</p><p>They sat there like that for a while. Dean repeated the mantra of <em> He’s not here </em> under his breath while Cas kneaded his shoulder or traced his tail over Dean’s face, occasionally meowing; keeping him in the here and now.</p><p>*****</p><p>Cas shifted back to his human form once Dean was fully grounded. The hunter watched him from his spot against the wall, his expression unreadable except for the faint blush that turned his cheeks and ears red when Cas first made eye contact with him. Cas didn't comment on it. He silently assessed the damage done to the room, mentally making a list of things that needed to be replaced—light bulb, lampshade, window. </p><p>"Sorry for messing up your house."</p><p>Cas turned to the hunter. Dean looked away, a flurry of emotions running across his face before settling in a carefully-measured neutral.</p><p>"It's alright," Cas said easily, turning back to study the window. Careful not to catch his fingers on the broken glass, he carefully checked the frame for cracks. "You didn't mean to do it. Granted, it's a bit of a mess," he nodded down at the glass shards covering the carpet, "but it's not a problem." He glanced back at the hunter in what he hoped was a reassuring way.</p><p>Dean frowned. "You're not . . . mad?" he asked tentatively.</p><p>"No, of course not." Satisfied that there were no cracks in the frame, Cas stepped away from the window. "You didn't mean to do it," he repeated, crossing his arms as he looked at the hunter.</p><p>Dean picked at the seam of his jeans with one hand. Cas waited until he spoke. "So," Dean said carefully. "I, uh . . . well, what now?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>To be continued . . .</p><p>In the next chapter we're gonna start getting into more magic stuff, which is fun. Also, probably more Charlie.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading—more coming at some point, hopefully soon<br/>❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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